PS 3503 


| .R46 


P6 


1913 




Copy 


1 



Poetic 
&ptiq»o*ta 

Kofem Uamrg 3mmm 





Class 



Book 

Copyright N° i _ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




ROBERT JAMES BRENNEN 



POETIC SYMPOSIA 



A TOAST TO POETS OF ALL 
THE AGES 



BY 

ROBERT JAMES BRENNEN 



PUBLISHED BY 

FINE ART PUBLISHING CO. 

MINNEAPOLIS 



"PL 
11 



Copyright, 1913 

by 

Robert James Brennen 



K. C. HOLTER PUB. CO. PRINT. 
MINNEAPOLIS. MINN. 



f'. 



6 O 



A332508 



DEDICATION. 

THIS VOLUME IS LOVINGLY IN- 
SCRIBED TO MY SISTER, 

FANNIE BRENNEN-DAYHOFF, 

AND MY BROTHER, 

WILL H. BRENNEN, 

WHO HAVE STEADFASTLY, FROM 
BABYHOOD TO RIPE MATURITY OF 
WOMANHOOD AND M A N H O OD , 
FOUND IN ME SOMETHING WORTHY 
OF THEIR CONTINUED LOVE AND 
AFFECTION. INASMUCH AS OUR 
MOTHER ON HER DYING BED, COM- 
MENDED US UNTO GOD, WHILE WE 
STOOD HELPLESS BABIES BESIDE HER, 
SO DO I, THE OTHER TWO AND THE 
INCREASE OF THE TRIO BY THE 
FRUITION OF HEAVEN'S HIGH PUR- 
POSE, COMMEND UNTO THAT SAME 
GOD, TRUSTING THAT OUR MOTH- 
ER'S PRAYER THEN UTTERED MAY 
HELP TO SUSTAIN US ALL TILL LIFE'S 
JOURNEY ENDS. 

AFFECTIONATELY, 

A BROTHER. 



PREFACE. 

The contents of this volume were prepared with 
an especial view to being presented solely as a lec- 
ture and reading, but so many regrets that they are 
not in book form have come to the notice of the author 
that he decided to satisfy what appeared to be a gen- 
uine demand for publication, and now offers all herein 
without apology for any shortcomings which may be 
noted by the highly critical — the last named orna- 
ments of society, so far as true Art is concerned, being 
effectively disposed of by the great authority so freely 
quoted in the Introductory. 

This volume, the author is happy to aver, is but a 
prelude to the large number of these peculiar mes- 
sages which have come to him and which his pen has 
already wrought, as his tears bedimmed the page 
whereon he wrote — it being the theory and practice of 
the author to regard nothing as worthy the name of 
poetry which, when it ebbs through the mind and be- 
comes a concrete expression, does not make flow the 
author's warmest tears. Strange to say, too, that the 
same rule applies though the writing may be that 
which the world, in a general way, may regard as 
humor. 

May the readers, by placing their souls in the "high- 
est mood" be able to perceive the thoughts herein re- 
corded in the same way the author did when he fondly 
drew them to his breast as completed compositions, 
is the earnest wish of him who has the honor, the 
pleasure, and the supreme satisfaction of signing as 

THE AUTHOR. 
January 1 , 1913. 



INTRODUCTORY.* 

As poets and their productions are to receive our 
attention in this reading, it should be a matter of deep 
interest to all first to consider what poetry is and under 
what conditions it is produced. 

Historically viewed, it is as ancient as prose, for 
both were in use as far back as history runs. 

It is conceded by all authorities to be one of the 
five major fine arts, and, in this respect, it stands on a 
par with architecture, music, painting and sculpture, 
and each of the three last named — music, painting and 
sculpture — lays claim to poetry as its handmaiden. 

When it is seen that poetry has the whole domain 
of the known and the unknown — the real and the 
imaginary — to draw upon, while each of the other 
branches of fine art is bound in some way more closely 
to adhere to realty, it is apparent that poetry has some 
advantage over all other of the fine arts. 

The Century Dictionary defines poetry as one of 

the fine arts which addresses itself to the feelings and 

the imagination by the instrumentality of musical and 

moving words, but adds as a secondary thought, that 

it is the art which has for its object the exciting of 

intellectual pleasure by means of vivid, imaginative, 

passionate and inspiriting language, usually, though 

not necessarily, arranged in the form of measured 

verse or numbers. 

*This Introductory's phraseology has not been altered from that 
used by the author in oral delivery. 



The new Britannica, later and from its extended 
treatment of the subject, at this time more authorita- 
tive, discusses the difficulty of denning poetry and 
finally, with reluctance, gives a definition of absolute 
poetry as the concrete and artistic expression of the 
human mind in emotional and rhythmical language. 
In other words, the Britannica makes artistic expres- 
sion and rhythmical language essentials, while the Cen- 
tury would leave them nonessentials. 

This most learned author* thrills one with the dec- 
laration that to write a good song requires that sim- 
plicity of grammatical structure which is foreign to 
many natures — that mastery over direct and simple 
speech which only true passion and feeling can give and 
which "coming from the heart goes to the heart,*' and 
says that without going so far as to declare that no 
man is a poet who cannot write a good song, it may 
certainly be said that no man can write a good song 
who is not a good poet. 

Notwithstanding all that may be said upon poetry 
as a fine art, he declares, it is in the deepest sense of 
the word an inspiration. No man can write a line of 
genuine poetry without having been born again, or as 
the true rendering of the text says, born from above, 
and then the mastery over those highest reaches of 
form which are beyond the ken of others comes to 
him as the result of the change. 

For (he continues), what is the deep distinction be- 
tween poet and proseman? A writer may be many 
things besides a poet, but the moment the poetic mood 

♦Walter Theodore Watts-Dunton. 
10 



is upon him all the trappings of the world with which 
for years he may have been clothing his soul — the 
world's knowingness, its cynicism, its self-seeking, its 
ambition — fall away, and the man becomes an in- 
spired child with ears attuned to nothing but the whis- 
pers of those spirits from the Golden Age, who, ac- 
cording to Hesiod, haunt and bless the degenerate 
earth. What such a man produces may greatly de- 
light and astonish his readers or hearers, yet not so 
greatly as it delights and astonishes himself. His pas- 
sages of pathos draw no tears so deep or so sweet as 
those that fall from his own eyes while he writes; his 
sublime passages overawe no soul so imperiously as 
his own. It might be said, indeed, that Sincerity and 
Conscience, the two angels that bring the poet the 
wonders of the poetic dream, bring him also the deep- 
est and truest delight of form, and that by the aid of 
Sincerity and Conscience the poet is enabled to see 
more clearly than other men the eternal limits of his 
own art — to see with Sophocles that nothing, not even 
poetry itself, is of any worth to man, invested as he is 
by the whole army of evil, unless it is in the deepest 
and highest sense good — unless it comes linking us 
all together by closer bonds of sympathy and pity, 
strengthening us to fight the foes with whom Fate and 
even Nature, the mother who bore us, sometimes seem 
in league against us — to see with Milton that the high 
quality of man's soul which in English is expressed by 
the word "virtue" is greater even than the great poem 
which he prized, greater than all the rhythms of all the 
tongues that have been spoken since Babel — and to see 

11 



with Shakespeare and with Shelley that the high pas- 
sion which in English is called "love" is lovelier than 
all ar t — lovelier than all the marble Mercuries that 
"await the chisel of the sculptor" in the marble hills — 
and, if we wish to make decision upon the question of 
what is and what is not poetry, he answers that the 
only questions to be asked concerning any work of 
art are simply these: Is that which is here embodied 
really permanent, universal and elemental? — and, Is 
the concrete form embodying it really beautiful — ac- 
knowledged as beautiful by the soul of man in its 
highest moods? Any other question, he says, is an 
impertinence — and so he makes you and every other 
intelligent human being capable of criticizing any 
painting or piece of architecture, music or sculpture 
ever produced, or any of the poems in such a collec- 
tion as I have produced and brought to you here for 
your soulful consideration. 

In passing to the main topic "A Toast to Poets of 
All the Ages," you will bear in mind that the whole 
reading is poetic, in the first part of which quotations 
from great poets and sweet singers are woven into a 
blank verse composition of my own, which details the 
names of the authors and the title of the lines from 
which the quotations are taken, and also expresses my 
own feelings toward those lines, the poets who wrote 
them, and the effect they are known to have had upon 
human existence. 

When some of the different authors and their lines 
have been adverted to, I shall offer several other speci- 
mens of my own metrical compositions. 

12 



"A TOAST TO POETS OF ALL THE AGES". 



PROEM. 



By rev'ry raised to heights of bliss sublime, 

My soul commingling with the bards of old, 

As well as those retaining mortal life, 

A banquet hall, like Jacob's ladder, stretched 

From earth to Heaven, I saw, and noted all 

Were gathered there whose songs and verse we praise, 

Whose chips and sparks from Source of Love Divine 

Doth lift a sordid world toward better things, 

And out of this great throng there came a soul 

Who beckoned me to draw unto him there 

While he should hold a converse brief with me! 

Though diffident, I yielded to his call 

And strode me up to Master of the Toasts 

And heard him bid me application make 

To join this club of poets by response 

To toast to poets from the ages joined 

And quote from works of theirs what I should choose 

As proof of worth of mankind's deepest love, 

And from mine own at least some showing make! 

So, loving him and loving them, obeyed, 

And thus admittance to their club I sought! 

In line with preparation pre-enjoined 

By Muse whose vision clear the need foresaw, 

This toast, on scroll, I thereforth drew and read: 



13 



THE TOAST. 

Our Honored Master and Assembled Friends — 
If thine were other souls I'd greatly fear 
To stand amid a throng so great — august — 
And by mankind so loved — by Heaven blest! 
But ye, whose hearts have melted oft to tears 
For e'en the crawling, creeping things of earth, 
I know will send from out thy hearts to me 
A stream of love that will uplift — uphold — 
And waft me to those flights that e'er enthrall 
All hearts and souls attuned to nobler things — 
The hearts of all mankind, from humblest serf, 
To mightiest of the earth — e'en kings and queens! 
I would not deign to one of thee ascribe 
A greater power than other hath possessed! 



GENERAL TRIBUTE TO ALL POETS. 

That one who by a single metered line 

From heart sent out by poet's art divine 

Hath drawn thereby from man one joyous tear, 

Or brought to one poor, heartsick soul a cheer, 

I class with those who deluge us with tears! 

Whose tomes of verse contain a myriad cheers! 



14 



SPECIFIC TRIBUTES. 
I 

I mention first the poet who hath won 

The prize most glorious mortal bard e'er gained, 

And doubt it not in this will all agree ! 

'Tis Greek Cleanthes whom Saint Paul 

In Holy Writ hath quoted from — his Hymn 

To Zeus being deftly turned to serve 

As praise to Christians' God — my God and yours! 

Though sung six hundred years before 

Saint Paul the Gospel of our Savior preached, 

As told in chapter seventeen of Acts! 

Cleanthes' Hymn to Zeus hath these lines: 



Thine offspring are we! 
Therefore will I hymn thy praises 
And sing thy might forever! 
Thee, all this universe, 
Which rolls about the earth, obeys, 
Wheresoever thou doth guide it, 
And gladly owns thy sway! 



15 



II 

As citizen of earth's most wondrous State 

And lover of its barred and starry Flag, 

My heart pours out its love to Francis Key, 

Who gave that land a stirring national song — 

"Star-Spangled Banner" named, and known of all! 

And known as well the fateful date — fourteenth 

September, eighteen hundred and fourteen! 

Affording him the incident which led 

The angels hovering near him then to bring 

To his poetic mind this dream unpeered, 

When bent on getting friend by foe released 

He made his way to British battleship, 

Then standing off our Coast near Baltimore, 

Intent on felling Fort McHenry's Flag 

By shot and shell poured out in ranc'rous mood! 

But Key, unheedful of their menace quite, 

Made known his wish to chafing foe, when lo! 

He, too, was prisoner made — put under guard 

With friend he brought and friend he sought to save! 

Was made to know the foe's most vaunting boast, 

That soon no country e'en — say nought of friend 



16 



Or home — this hero, nor his fellowmen, 
Would have — was made to hear the roaring shell 
Directed toward the Fort and Flag he loved, 
And from their cartel-ship, these prisoners brave 
Strained eyes to see if their loved Flag might fall ! 
Long in the night the flaming breath from ship 
To shore — from Fort to ship — made ruby glow 
Of light as rockets' glare — the bursting shells 
By foe aimed all too well — to them made clear 
That their adored and God-protected Flag 
Still fluttered in the breeze — nor lost nor torn! 
When sullen Briton ceased his fire and lay 
In silence there till morn might better show 
The havoc wrought — our nation conquered — dead! 
But, no! He failed to count that God was there, 
In freemen's cause, to nullify those guns! 
Foe who, when morning came, saw rolling yet, 
From mast intact, that Emblem's om'nous wave! 
Saw truth he could not see before — that war, 
By him, was not producing freedom's woe 



17 



His boastful spirit thought such easy work 

When he, uncivil quite, insulted Key, 

With disrespect for flag of truce, and boast 

That as a British prisoner he'd have chance 

To watch with his own eyes and see the Fort, 

His Flag, and Nation all go down! And, now, 

The prisoners, too, were peering through the smoke 

And darkness toward the Fort, before the night 

Had gone — expectant — waiting gleam of sun 

To learn their fate, their Nation's and their Flag's, 

Of which they could but guess from silent foe! 

While yet 'twas night and none could see, they 

watched, 
And poet's thoughts in this most awful pause 
Are gathered in these lines of our loved Key! 



18 



O say, can you see by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming! 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 

clouds of the fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly 

streaming ! 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

there ! 
O say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 



19 



When gleam of light from heavenly orb sent out 

And mist began to clear away, they saw, 

These prisoners under guard — or thought they saw, 

"The Waving Glory of the Sky" by breeze 

Now lifted up and now let down — their Flag! 

O God be praised — their Flag in truth it was! 

And Key, so full of inspiration now, 

Began to write, and when he left that ship 

He carried with him verses wrought by mind 

Attuned to hear the whispers from above! 

Each day we live his words grow more sublime! 



20 



On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 
deep, 

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence re- 
poses, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses! 
Now, it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam! 
In full glory reflected — now shines on the stream! 
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 



21 



Ill 

My heart's emotion is as greatly stirred 

By Samuel Francis Smith's "America.** 

For such a bard — no hypercritic I! 

If there be those who would this role assume 

They only breed admiring hearts' contempt! 

Till time shall be no more these words will live 



My country, 'tis of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing! 
Land where my fathers died ! 
Land of the pilgrims' pride! 
From every mountain side, 

Let freedom ring! 



IV 

Nor less me sway, O bards, doth Julia Howe, 

Who "Battle Hymn of the Republic" wrote. 

The martial spirit she doth raise and wield, 

In fundamental grasp of things divine, 

Is equal to the tribute paid by man 

To Heaven's Highest and Sublimest One! 

O joyous rhythm, these words of hers do bring: 



Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 

Lord! 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 

wrath are stored! 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible 

swift sword! 

His truth is marching on! 



23 



V 

In every land, in every babel tongue, 

Emotion in its greatest fullness sweeps 

As deeply as the sweetest homily 

E'er brought from man's God-loving, inmost soul, 

When those sweet strains of "Home, Sweet Home' 

are heard! 
And who doth not the author of it know? 
John Howard Payne — immortalized by song! 
O words! What seas of tears you've wrung, and yet 
But earnest of the bulk thou art to wring! 



Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like Home! 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
Which search through the world is ne'er met with 

elsewhere! 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home — there's no place 

like Home! 



24 



VI 

Now let us stretch our hands across the seas 
To Mother England's most-loved Prelate-bard, 
And sing with him his "Pillar of the Cloud!" 
John Henry Newman's sweetest song — known, too, 
Wherever God is known — "Lead, Kindly Light!" 
If e'er my soul hath lifted been from scenes 
Of sordid life, 'tis when this plea I hear! 



Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom! 

Lead Thou me on! 
The night is dark and I am far from home! 

Lead Thou me on! 
Keep Thou my feet — I do not ask to see 
The distant scene — one step enough for me! 



25 



VII 

Again to Motherland we go for song 
That lifteth up when all the world is dark! 
The song that sent Titanic' s hero-souls 
To Heaven while their earthly forms were drawn 
Through frozen floes to hapless watery graves! 
That gave our martyred President his hope 
When earthly scenes were closing to his eyes! 
The great McKinley, who threw all the world 
In tears and grief by meekness of his death, 
As Sarah Flower Adams' words he clutched 
To lead him to his blissful, Heavenly home! 
A song, a prayer, a buoy and anchor, too, 
Are her dear lines, which myriad souls have sent 
To restful peace — "Nearer, my God, to Thee!" 
Yea, Father of us all — "Nearer to Thee!" 
What debt this world doth owe to woman's soul 
Whose inspiration gave to it these words: 



Nearer, my God, to Thee — 

Nearer to Thee — 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me, 
Still all my song shall be — 
Nearer, my God, to Thee — 

Nearer to Thee ! 



26 



VIII 

Another martyred President had, too, 
His fav'rite lines — this time from Scotland drawn! 
By William Knox, the Roxburgh bard, who lives 
In memory more for these few lines of verse 
Than other act in life he did — and more 
Perhaps from very fact that Lincoln loved 
Them best of all and knew the lines by heart! 
But no detraction from his merit comes 
From man's forgetting soon a poet grand! 
How oft, indeed, doth man forget e'en God! 
"Mortality" is named this poem rare, 
Which asks a reason for our mortal pride, 
And none hath forward come to answer yet! 
This earth would be a better place to live 
If words of Knox were taken more to heart: 



O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor — a fast-flying cloud! 
A flash of the lightning — a break of the wave! 
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave! 



27 



IX 

Another Scotland son — the Ayrshire Bard — 
Hath loving friends throughout this pretty world, 
And none more strong in sympathy than I, 
Though choosing from his verse for beauty lines 
Gives rise to pers'nal feeling of the heart! 
And in his poem dealing with true love 
And false — and Cotter's Jenny, sweet and fair — 
Is where dear Burns has tried to hide the gem 
That has no peer in matters touching hearts. 
Ah, Burns! These lines depict so well first love! 



O happy love — where love like this is found \ 
O heartfelt raptures — bliss beyond compare! 

I've paced much this weary mortal round 

And sage experience bids me this declare: 
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In others' arms breathe out the tender tale 

Beneath the milkwhite thorn that scents the eve- 
ning gale! 



28 



X 

Among the English Lords who knew the heart, 

None wrote more purely, nor more truly, than 

Great Alfred Tennyson, and his sweet words 

Do cover well all passions felt by man, 

And in "The Princess" may be found some lines 

The proper chord doth touch for days gone by! 

O Tennyson — from whence caught thou these words! 



Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others — deep as love! 
Deep as first love — and wild with all regret! 
Oh death in life — the days that are no more! 



29 



XI 

Returning to our own, our native land, 

With William Cullen Bryant let us dwell 

In meditation on this life and death, 

As in his "Thanatopsis," meter-told, 

Wherein he has from time to time been thought 

To teach a doctrine false, but none can read 

And reading well find not his hope here shown! 



So live that when thy summons comes to join 

The innumerable caravan which moves 

To that mysterious realm where each shall take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams! 



30 



XII 

Another Briton royal won renown; 

Won hate and foes and most unenvied life! 

But all has been by death's transmuting fire 

In Heaven forgiven — let's hope — and dream with him 

Of his "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" once more; 

With merry dancers, bent on pleasure's fill, 

Chivalric soldiers brave, and women fair, 

Unheedful of the wearing night and lost 

To all but worldly lure — their souls' delight; 

Perhaps Lord Byron's, too, if truth were known! 



There was a sound of revelry by night — 
The Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; 
But hush! hark; a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell! 



31 



Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet! 
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! Arm! — it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 



32 



XIII 



PART I. 



Nor now depart from England's shores do we 

To pay respect to leader of thee all, 

Who stands here now as Master of thy Toasts, 

And yet whose honored name hath oft been jeered 

And mocked by foes pursuing e'en beyond 

His sepulchre — by those who fain would take 

His shining crown and pass it to their friends! 

But, ah! the glorious truth will e'er prevail, 

And thou, great Master of this feast, art sure 

Of fame eternal here on earth or long 

As it shall roll as man's abode — and e'en 

Of love 'mid Heaven's throngs, for thy true worth! 

But, Shakespeare, thou hast writ so much of good, 

It maketh searcher for a gem great task, 

For e'er it is, we this one pass, and pass 

Another hundred more, and then return 

And shut our eyes and pluck, and still pluck well! 

We find in thy "Midsummer Night's" sweet dream 

Some lines that touch upon our toast, here given, 

And cite them now thy own great store to prove 

Of imagery possessed "and bodied forth!" 



33 



The lunatic, the lover and the poet 

Are of imagination all compact! 

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold! 

That is the madman! The lover, all as frantic, 

Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt! 

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to 

heaven, 
And as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name! 
Such tricks hath strong imagination 
That if it would but apprehend some joy 
It comprehends some bringer of that joy! 
Or in the night, imagining some fear, 
How easy is a bush supposed a bear! 



34 



PART II. 

It is not well to leave thee, Master, yet, 
Without thy views of Justice so well told 
By thy own mind's created Judge — the girl! 
Fair Portia — woman's pride in literature! 
The heroine of thy Venitian scenes, 
Depicted 'round the Merchant of that town! 



The quality of mercy is not strained! 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven 

Upon the place beneath! It is twice blest! 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes! 

*Tis mightiest in the mightiest! It becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown! 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the fear and dread of kings! 

But mercy is above this sceptered sway! 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings! 

It is an attribute to God himself! 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice! 



35 



XIV 

PART I. 

I ne'er would wish, by any means, to pass 

An hour in measured words and pretty rhymes 

Discussing, and no mention make of him, 

Who, if to England had been born, instead, 

Had worn the poet laureates' royal crown, 

But who, by reason of American birth, 

And home beneath the "Stars and Stripes" he loved 

Must go through life without this royal pomp, 

But ne'ertheless as dearly loved by all 

The world as if this royal crown he'd worn! 

Ere now you have his name upon your tongues! 

Could speak it well as I — Longfellow — he 

Who wrote "The Arrow and the Song," and scores 

And scores of else, but none more apropos 

In Toast that has to do with bards and song! 



36 



I shot an arrow into the air! 
It fell to earth I knew not where, 
For so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight! 



I breathed a song into the air! 
It fell to earth I knew not where, 
For who has sight so keen and strong 
That it can follow the flight of song! 



Long, long afterward, in an oak, 
I found the arrow still unbroke, 
And the song, from beginning to end 
I found again in the heart of a friend! 



37 




HELEN LOUISE BRENNEN 



BABIES (SEE PAGE 54. 



PART II. 

In "Theologian's Tale" some lines we find 

So well describing scenes of busy earth, 

We love to take them to our hearts and weep 

For friendships lost ere friendship well were gained! 

To weep because we cannot hold intact 

The circle of our hosts of friends — if "friend," 

Indeed, be strong enough a word to fit 

That one whose eyes, whose touch, whose kindly act, 

Hath lifted up and stirred our very souls 

To loving him or her — ah, there's the point! 

If him and him between, then, "friendship" is 

The suited word, but if 'twere him and her, 

And nearness of the blood forbid it not, 

Then "love's" the word we need to use for this, 

Wherein the heart takes heart and one becomes, 

In essence and in truth, if fate doth well! 

In this great Tale Longfellow writes these lines: 



Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other 

in passing! 
Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the 

darkness! 
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one 

another! 
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and 

silence ! 



41 



XV 

From Pennsylvania came a bard who breathed 
A song, remembered by all mortals here 
Since early youth — another preacher, too! 
(From whom we get so many pretty hymns!) 
The lines all shouting welcome to the tomb! 
A thought that touches every soul of earth 
Before it breaks its clay-bound tenements, 
And one that comforts all in mortal life! 
So God be praised for William Muhlenberg 
And his sweet song, "1 Would not Live Alway!" 

I would not live alway — no, welcome the tomb! 
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom! 
Where he deigned to sleep I'll too bow my head, 
All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed! 
Then the glorious daybreak to follow that night! 
The orient gleams of the angels of light, 
With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise, 
And chant forth their matins away to the skies! 

Who, who would live alway — away from his 

God! 
Away from yon Heaven, that blissful abode, 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright 

plains 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns! 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet 
Their Savior and brethren transported to greet, 
While the songs of salvation exultingly roll 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul! 



42 



XVI 

One bard, still numbered in our mortal band, 
Whose lines have echoed 'round the world — there is! 
A son of England's far-stretched, sceptered zone, 
Whose breadth of view in metered line expressed 
Hath chilled the grasp for power of nations all, 
His own included in among — hath shamed 
The Britons' boastful mien, who counted guns 
And ships of war above the power of God, 
Still holding to that ancient screed, that might 
Makes right — and in his loved "Recessional," 
Now sung in every land, he placed the words 
That check the boastful heart, wherever found! 
Small need to say that Kipling is his name! 



God of our fathers, known of old! 

Lord of our far-flung battle line, 
Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold 

Dominion over palm and pine! 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet! 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 



43 



XVII 

One more I name — by Heaven's mercy spared 

To earth as yet — nor least among this band 

Is he — "The Hoosier Poet" — children's friend — 

James Whitcomb Riley — bard so grand, I grope 

To find the fit and proper words to pay 

Respect his due by one mere novice here! 

But, now, remembering well, in years gone by, 

A glimpse into his soul, on journey sad, 

To put the mortal form of mutual friend 

Away (John Allan Finch — who loved so well 

The bards and rhythm wrought by them, and knew 

By rote the prettiest lines of all — 

Who oft hath made my tears of joy outpour 

By feeling recitation of their words) 

Disposed I feel to quote you here from verse 

By Riley penned, in fullest sense, I ween, 

Deserving mankind's deepest — highest — love 

Throughout all time — "An Old Sweetheart of Mine.' 



As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone 
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has 

known, 
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, 
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. 

But, ah; my dream is broken by a step upon the stair 
And the door is softly opened, and — my wife is stand- 
ing there; 
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign 
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of 
mine! 



44 



PAUSE. 

Now, Honored Master and loved banqueters, 

Though time hath no effect on thee and thine, 

Thou knowest I'm but tyro here among 

This great eternal throng, and would not deign 

To hold thy minds from off thy heavenly joys, 

Nor anywise proscribe thy lightest wish! 

And if 1 have thy kind permit to close 

I shall proceed to offer to thee now 

Some verse of mine, as hath directed him, 

Presiding at thy feast, to make complete 

My application to thy Club, to admit 

Me to its membership — an honor great, 

Indeed, and one long, long before this hour 

I've prayed to own, but had no work to claim 

The valued prize, until these Muses mine 

Began but recently me to entreat 

To yield myself as scribe for their great minds 

And write what they might bring from primal fount! 

So here, for criticism thine, present 

My several transcripts of their messages, 

And if I have not truly writ them down, 

Or wrong interpretation given their less 

Than whispered thoughts — O be thou usual kind, 

And smile at all mistakes, though mountain high! 



45 



THE APPLICANT'S VERSE. 

(Original Lyrics by Robert James Brennen.) 

"VICTORY." 

I 

Just yesterday, in life's great Marathon, unwilling race 
I made, 

But in, urged on by Hope and Faith and Love, the 
better part I played, 

And at the goal, far in the lead, looked back in deep- 
est scorn on those 

Who thought me weak in this great race, for Honor's 
sake, against my foes! 



II 

O Victory! O Victory! How sweet art thou, now 

that the contest's done, 
Wherein Life's highest purpose, pitted 'gainst its 

foibles, hath neatly won! 
O Victory! O Victory! In thee my heart doth much 

rejoice, 
Since through the mire of Calumny it comes to find 

itself thy choice! 



46 



Ill 

The means whereby this victory was won were from 

high heaven sent! 
Without its aid my soul to song like this would ne'er 

have given vent, 
But Honor gone and ground with grime of hellish foes 

into the dust 
This battle fierce, with demon fiends, perforce have 

lost I must! 



IV 

Now, babes, who to my bosom fondly in a sweet em- 
brace I pressed, 

And bade adieu perhaps for aye, as for the awful 
course I dressed, 

I see again, no more to painful test be put, while life 
is mine 

But gathered in my arms each day will be, and blessed 
with love divine! 



47 



"SWEET WORD OF CHEER!" 

I 

O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

To downcast throng thou art a song 
To banish fear and dry the tear 

And boost the heartsore ones along! 
When life is drear thou hast no peer! 
O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

II 

O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

As songbird's trill, thy soundwaves thrill, 
And drown the sneer that pains the ear, 

Which turneth loose the sordid ill! 
When life is drear thou hast no peer! 
O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

Ill 

O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

When lives are crossed, and deemed as lost, 
Thy sound doth steer them to the clear, 

And calm the billows which have tossed! 
When life is drear thou hast no peer! 
O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

IV 

O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 

That calmeth me, and comforts thee, 
And cureth fear we all know here, 

And filleth e'en the dumb with glee! 
When life is drear thou hast no peer! 
O word of cheer — sweet word of cheer! 



48 



THINE ELYSIAN TRIUNE— MARGUERITE." 



I 

The lonely bard, in dreams of happy youth, 
Of elfland tales and maze of living truth, 
Was startled by a fairy's vision fleet 
With features thine — dear little Marguerite! 
'Twas thee — these posies real here doth prove! 
Ah, joy, within my heart, my tears doth move! 
No more shall I the lonesome spirit fear 
Whilst thou, my fairy Marguerite, art near! 



II 

O Marguerite — sweet little Marguerite! 

With those dear notes no name can e'er compete! 

None other is with music so replete 

As thine Elysian triune — Marguerite! 

Where hath a sweeter bud been found than this! 

Where shall the sun's bright radiance ever kiss, 

And kissing, kisses find one half so sweet 

As when it meets thy cheeks — O Marguerite! 



Ill 

How eloquent thy speech — O Posies fair! 

How tender-sweet those hands that placed thee there! 

If this by angel's grace should have been done 

From me no greater blessing it had won! 

So lonely and so dreary passed the day 

Till came to me this fragrant vased-bouquet! 

The highest, noblest, grandest, sweetest treat, 

But one — and that one thee — O Marguerite! 



49 



"A SIP OF LOVE WITH BURNS." 



I 

O come, my bonnie lassie, come with me, 

Beneath the shades of clustering sweet thorn trees! 
O dearest one — belong not I to thee, 

And trothed aren't we to do as we may please! 

Let's sit us here and scent the fragrant breeze 
Within each others' loving arms entwined! 

My lips from thine let sip as busy bees 
The purest distillation e'er refined, 
Whilst straying hand thy pulsing heart may bind! 

II 
(By Robert Burns.) 

O happy love — where love like this is found! 

O heartfelt raptures — bliss beyond compare! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare: 

If Heaven a draught of Heavenly pleasure spare 
One cordial in this melancholy vale 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
In others' arms breathe out the tender tale 
'Neath milkwhite thorns that scent the evening gale! 

Ill 

O laddie, dear (from lassie's lips I hear), 

The bliss of this is more than I can tell! 
Within thy manly arms' embrace no fear 

Have I — I only know thou lovest well! 

So well — so well — my speech is lost to tell! 
O may our wedding day not long delay! 

Enraptured with thy love, my heart doth swell! 
Love's passion strong my very soul doth sway! 
Yea, all my being is thine own for aye! 



50 



"HOPE, FAINT HEART. 5 



I 

Let's sing of power more potent than the treasures of 
the mint and mine, 

Of fortune greater far than these, Faint Heart, which 
thou canst have for thine, 

And which the richest well may covet, but can never 
wrest from thee, 

However weak thou art, nor howe'er strong the covet- 
ous may be! 



II 

O, strike the chords of Life and let them well their 

thrilling anthem out, 
For Hope's the central theme of Life, Faint Heart, 'tis 

Hope the angels shout! 
'Tis Hope sustains the sinwrought soul on earth, 'tis 

Hope that calmeth all, 
For Hope's the cynosure of Life, Faint Heart, 'tis Hope 

the heavens call! 



Ill 

No soul can sink so low in sin by demon of the depths 

despoiled, 
But by a sip of Hope drunk in can reach the goal of 

Life unsoiled, 
For Hope's a power more potent than the treasures of 

the mint and mine! 
A fortune greater far than these, Faint Heart, which 

thou canst have for thine! 



51 



"AMERICAN NATIONAL ANTHEM." 



I 

High aloft, there's an Emblem that flutters and quivers 

and waves, 
As it says to the world that beneath its dear folds, 

none are slaves! 
It is preaching a gospel of peace and of love to us all! 
It is weeping when foolish ones sneer and dare say it 

must fall, 
For it stands as it stood when our kinsmen of old gave 

it birth, 
To give everyone refuge who claims it, throughout the 

round earth, 
From the tyrants who plunder and pillage the poor for 

the caste! 
O ye bugles, as minstrels to move our emotion, give 

blast! 

II 

'Tis the Emblem we love — 'tis the Standard we praise 

evermore! 
'Tis the Flag of our country, whose quivers and waves 

we encore! 
Precious "Old Glory" — "Star-Spangled Banner" — 

that Ensign of fame! 
Ah, there's nothing so priceless to you and to me as 

its name! 
On our knees we acknowledge devotion and pledge it 

our lives! 
Through the thundering roar of the cannon's loud 

mouth it survives! 
For the freemen whose love it calls forth ne'er per- 
mitted its foe 
E'en a ravel to take as a token of triumph to show! 



52 



Ill 

Yea, its hosts of adorers will die in devotion if called 
To uphold to the last this great Emblem of Man Dis- 
enthralled ! 
O thou ignorant boor, who may dream of new flag to 

unfurl ! 
International — bah, and abase, all but this — O thou 

churl ! 
Know'st thou not there's none other can claim e'en a 

tittle of love 
From a people who've thrown yon bright colors to 

breezes above? 
Till a cataclysm comes that shall smother us all it 

will last! 
O ye cornets, as choirs to acclaim our emotion, give 

blast! 

IV 

In its field of affection, full studded with stars from 

the sky, 
One may see why its men and its women in martyrdom 

die 
With a smile on the face, when its folds they may hold 

in embrace, 
While the soul issues forth to evolve in a limitless 

space ! 
In alternate bars — passionate love and a virtuous 

peace ! 
One may see why its babes and its youths and its maids 

never cease 
In devotion to yonder dear Standard that flies from the 

mast! 
O ye trombones, as trumpets, to trill our emotion, 

give blast! 



53 



'MY BABIES!" 



I 

I have babes of flesh and blood and babes of metric 

line, 
Each one differentiated by some trait divine! 
Those of flesh and blood are given growth and change 

betime, 
Going nearer daily toward the zenith of sublime, 
While my little ones in meter change not through the 

years, 
Lying quite quiescent to receive my homage tears! 

II 

O ye children of my blood and children of my brain! 
Father-love is with you through the sunshine and the 

rain! 
Would that I might give thee each thy fondest heart's 

desire, 
And that each to holy paths of virtue may aspire! 
Each one wields a potent portion, either good or ill! 
Let us all then try, dear ones, the world with good to 

fill! 

Ill 

Ye that came with just and equal claim of motherhood 
More to her must render than to me of all that's good, 
But the little ones, by Muses given, father's are alone 
As to doing good, or ill — for which they must atone! 
Let it be our sincere purpose, each and every one, 
That each day we live, some deed to help the world is 
done! 



54 




WILLIAM ELBERT BRENNEN, 
THEODORE WAGNER BRENNEN. MALCOLM FINCH BRENNEN. 



IV 

Babes of flesh and blood baptize we, and them chris- 
ten, too, 

Priestly father them enjoining to the faith be true, 

While my metric babes are named with view to their 
careers ! 

I, the priest, baptizing by immersing in my tears! 

None of them are boys and neither are they girls, so 
sweet ! 

All are blest, howe'er, with pairs of scrumptious, tiny 
feet! 



57 



'KENTUCKY BLOOD." 



I 

My dear old Bluegrass Commonwealth — thy absent 

son cannot forget thee! 
Too long my breast has harbored love my mother fair 

had taught me! 
Too long thy river banks and pleasant hills I rambled 

daily over! 
Too long, to now forget I love thy brakes of cane and 

fields of clover, 
Thy vineclad roofs, thy lightning steeds, and belles 

far-famed for wondrous beauty! 
My life is thine, in glory given, when thou shalt call 

thy sons to duty! 

II 

Kentucky, O Kentucky — I, with all my heart, shall love 

thee ever! 
No wars, no strifes — there's nothing in this world but 

death can this love sever! 
Too long my heart's revered the glorious deeds of thy 

brave sons and daughters! 
Too long, to now forget I love thy hills and vales and 

quenching waters! 
Kentucky, O Kentucky — dearest land — how firm and 

true thy tether! 
When life has gone from out my form, O let me rest 

beneath thy heather! 



58 



Ill 

Just to've been born in Old Kentucky is to me more 
fame and glory 

Than e'er was won by any man in all the world's great 
battles gory, 

Or drawn from power to rule the nations of the world 
in all the ages! 

Nor would I trade that honor for the praises earned by 
all the sages! 

Just to've been born in Old Kentucky is to me a price- 
less treasure — 

Aside from love of kin and wife and Heaven, there is 
no greater pleasure! 



59 



'AMERICAN RECESSIONAL." 



I 



Jehovah God — Primordial One — 
Whose mercy us a nation made — 

Who gave us wondrous Washington 
And thus our great foundation laid — 

Teach us, O Lord, how we may deal 

To truly serve the commonweal! 



II 

When Thou shalt give us breadth of view 

To cure all errors of the past — 
When false shall not appear as true 

And wrongs no more their shadows cast- 
Teach us, O Father, how with zeal 
To serve in truth the commonweal! 



in 

If there be ruler holding throne 

Dare claiming he hath right divine — 

Who places e'er degenerate drone 
Above the soul that's truly Thine — 

Teach us, O Most High God, to feel 

Such things as hurt the commonweal! 



60 



IV 

If there be nation that shall boast 

Of power supreme on land or sea — 

Of glist'ning steel to guard her Coast, 
Subordinating Thine and Thee, 

Great God, set Thy approving seal 

Upon our acts for commonweal! 



If nations rise to nations' need 
And federate the entire world 

Beneath the banner of the freed, 

Which long o'er us hath been unfurled- 

Teach us, O Triune God, to heal 

All woes that vex the commonweal! 



61 



FEB 15 1913 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

llllllllUUIIIIIIIIIIIllllttllllllllllllUllllL 

018 603 644 A W 



